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Friday, November 25, 2011

Don’t you
just love it when the tourist boats slip into Princess Royal Harbour, tie up
and let their human cargo lose on our well prepared town awash with eager volunteers?

We know who
they are, in their brightly coloured shirts, smiles at the ready, full of
information about here, there and everywhere.

The town
fills, all the shops scream “come to me”, bands play in the park, buses
distribute folk all over town and the coffee shops fume with over-heating
machinery.

It is, after
all, only for a day and so we make a huge effort to ensure they leave saying
things like: “What a town. The people are so friendly and there is so much
going on. It must be exhausting to live there.”

But we know
the truth, don’t we, because when they all leave, we sit back, exhausted,
knowing full well that there is nothing else to do until the next boat comes
in.

Oh yes, there
was once a life here for those of us not prepared to cram into a tight spot in
the night club, or brave the bar at a pub. Not that long ago we had a top notch
hotel with a bar facing Ellen Cove and luxury rooms fit for our visiting
friends, those with more money than sense.

Those were
the days. And recently we had a great little venue down there, tucked into one
corner of the Cove, where local musicians could play their hearts out while the
rest of us tossed our bodies around like we never left the teen years.

You don’t
need me to tell you - you know it’s going to get worse.

Eventually
we’ll lose the pubs because alcohol will be banned from the centre of the city and
deemed “not family friendly”. The next to go will be the shopping centres,
which only encourage problem-shoppers, the churches because they only pray on
the vulnerable, and the library because it houses books and look at the trouble
they have caused over the centuries.

We’ll kick
and scream and cry out and some idiot will hang socks but when it is all broken
down we’ll realise that it’s probably all about something quite simple, like insurance.

The thing
is, no-one can guarantee anyone’s safety, anywhere, anymore and the only way to
stay alive is to not really live, but to hold out in your house, lock the
doors, bolt the windows and if someone knocks, call the police.

Tuesday, November 22, 2011

The recent kerfuffle over the people banned from the city
during CHOGM reminded me of the time I was on the WA Police Special Branch list
of suspects.

Let me be honest, it all began because I was out of work,
not long out of university and struggling to make prospective employers
recognise my great skills and accept my promise that I would be the next Laurie
Oaks.

But I’m not a chap to sit around even with loads of time on
my hand so I planted a massive and much admired vegetable garden. I think it
was the first, the last, and the only community vegetable patch in the
district.

In between plantings I read a book by a man called Henry
Root. Henry filled in his time by writing letters to pompous people, pricking
their balloons and enclosing money so they felt obliged to reply. I got right
onto it.

Among the many I wrote to were Alan Bond, the PM of NZ Sir
Robert “Piggy” Muldoon, the PM of the UK Margaret Thatcher and Queensland’s
very own, Joe Bejelke-Petersen.

They all replied and no doubt a number of them reported me,
but the one that forced the Special Branch to take action was the note I penned
to the French Consul congratulating that nation on the development of the
Exocet missile. This was during the Falklands War when Baroness Thatcher was at
her virulent best.

Within the week a delegation from the Special Branch knocked
on our suburban door to find my pregnant wife who welcomed them in with a
cheery “Yes, he is my husband. Would you like a cup of tea?”

That knocked them off their feet for a second or two but
they still insisted on meeting me in a carpark in the centre of the city and
when I did I explained to them that my letters were satiric, meaning “a
criticism of a folly and the holding up of said folly to scorn”.

Their collective brow curled over but fell back in place
after I told them the joke about the Frenchman, the Irishman and the
Lithuanian. And I added that I was a working comedian and compiling a book of
letters to sell at comedy shows.

Years later when it was announced that the Special Branch
would be disbanded I wrote in to demand I be retained on a list of social
threats because without it my life would lack meaning and I would lose major
bragging rights. Unfortunately I forgot to include money and I never heard from
them again.

Tuesday, November 01, 2011

This can be a very anxious time of the year for both parties
- the parents of the young and those who fear the fear of the parents.

The parents, of course, as the experts constantly remind us,
are only protecting their young from perceived threats and there is nothing to
do but walk with an umbrella, wave a stick, or perhaps wear an empty ice cream
container on your head.

I don’t do any of these things and yet I have never been
swooped by the bird Noongars call coolbardi
in my entire life. Why not? What is it about me? Does my head look like an
upside down ice cream container?

What’s more, I am not alone and whenever we
meet we share stories and marvel at the inability of others to recognise the
intelligence of the creature or see the simplicity of the solution – don’t be a
threat, be a friend.

But don’t try now, not if you live in the territory of a mob
that have a habit of swooping at anything that moves , wears red, reminds you
of someone they once knew, or walks beside a dog that chases anything that
moves, flies, or barracks for Collingwood.

Now is the spring of their discontent and the smartest thing
you can do is stay away from the nesting places.

When we arrived to occupy our Albany home the local mob were
in a terrible rage and we kept well clear of them even though it resulted in
some inconvenience. They were in a rage because some in the area were
intimidating them with sticks, stones and threatening body language.

We waited until peace reigned once again over the earth and
then we began our conversation, whistling as they flew by, installing a bird
bath, making sure they saw us spread the sunflower seeds on the lawn and
looking at them direct, without fear, as though they were the friendly landlord
come to collect rent.

Right now I can hear their early morning calls, their carols
to the new day and their cries warning others in the mob that something is not
quite right in their territory. I love those sounds and I love their night
song, that one that no-one quite knows the meaning off but my magpie loving son
and I are pretty sure one of our possibilities is more than likely.

Local Menang elder Carol Peterson will tell you the coolbardi is the messenger bird and if you’d only take
the time to listen, it could change your life.